There was death, of course! Only last week a young girl, after pawning all her trinkets, shot herself under the railway bridge. She would do better than that; she had some little white powders.
Then there was the compromise. Why not? Who under the circumstances would dare to tell her that death was better than dishonour? And yet ... she hated to think of doing it. She preferred to steal. Funny, wasn’t it? Her sense of morality was curious. She would rather be a thief than a harlot.
But she had no chance to be a thief. It would have to be the other thing. Rising she put rouge on her ghastly cheeks then rubbed it off again. No, not just yet! She would ask the young man for the five hundred francs. If he demanded the quid pro quo she would beg him to wait until to-morrow. Then she would go to the Casino and risk all. If she won she would return him his money, and say she had changed her mind. If she lost ... well, there was the white powder....
She would ask him at once. How dark and silent the house was. Room fourteen was on the floor below. Softly she crept down the shabby stairs. She had to put on her cloak; she shivered so.
That was his door. She hesitated, inclined to turn back. Perhaps he had gone out. Her heart was beating horribly and the hand she put out trembled. She knocked. There was no answer. Softly she tried the handle of the door.
END OF BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
The Story of Hugh
CHAPTER ONE
THE UNHAPPIEST LAD IN LONDON
1.
THE woman he used to call aunty kept a rooming house on Balmoral Circus, and the boy’s earliest memories were of domestic drudgery. He cleaned boots until nearly midnight, smudging with grimy knuckles his sleepy eyes. He slept in a cupboard at the rear of the hall, along with dirty brushes, smelly dusters and lymphatic cock-roaches. As he grew taller he learned to make beds and to take care of the rooms. Aunty nagged at him continually and he had to dodge occasional blows.